Too Bad You're Beautiful
by LetThemEatCake121
Summary: Really, Blaise, what is this coming to? Potter’s snogging Chang and talking to Rita Skeeter, of all people, and Granger’s breaking rules, and I’m – I’m-” "Shagging Potter?" Blaise supplied with a smirk.
1. Beneath

Too Bad You're Beautiful

**Too Bad You're Beautiful**

**Chapter 1: Beneath the Leaves**

"They won,"

"We know, Harry,"

"They won,"

"We were there, mate,"

"Those foul gits won, and all because of that evil old hag!"

Hermione looked up from her homework for the first time in the past hour. "How is it Umbridge's fault you lost to Slytherin?" she said.

"Because," –Harry tore in half his third attempt at his potions essay, "She wouldn't let us reform! We lost weeks of practice time because of her! She wanted them to win over us!"

"Harry," Hermione said, "I think Umbridge is concerned with more than just the outcome of the quidditch season,"

"Yeah, well, it's still her fault," Harry grumbled, "I'm going for a walk,"

Ron rose to follow him as he stalked towards to portrait hole, but Hermione caught his arm. "Don't," she said, "You know how he gets sometimes,"

Harry was livid, and the dark corridors only magnified his rage. Umbridge! That vile woman was the essence of pure evil! Her sour influence seemed to be seeping through the entire castle, keeping everyone on a razor's edge. She was almost as bad as those ever-favoured Slytherins. He shuddered to think what would happen if they teamed up…then again, he seethed, they probably already had.

"Potter!" he jumped. It had taken him until now – ¾ of the way to the entrance hall – to realize that he'd forgotten his invisibility cloak. And now someone was approaching, shouting his name.

"Potter!" the voice said again, "That cocky little bastard, did you hear what he said after the match? Like it's never even occurred to him that maybe he's not the best thing this world has ever beheld…"

Ah. Malfoy. Harry squeezed himself into a crevice behind a statue of a gnarled old goblin and watched as his adversary rounded the corner, closely followed by his two cronies.

"Go back to the common room," he snapped at them suddenly. They tried to protest, but he rounded on them, he pale face with unpleasant colour of overripe grapefruit. "Go!" he shouted. Despite the fact that they were both at the very least twice his size, fear crossed their faces, and they ran in the opposite direction.

"Bumbling morons," Malfoy muttered. He whirled back around and continued in the direction of the entrance hall. Malfoy, out of bed after hours? This had to be interesting. As soon as he'd gone around the next corner, Harry darted out and followed him, keeping to the shadows on the far wall. Malfoy's anger intrigued him. What could have motivated him to slam open doors and curse objects out of his way in the middle of the night, risking being caught?

It didn't take Harry long to realize they were headed for the Forbidden Forest. And Malfoy seemed to know exactly where he was going, cutting a concise path through the thick, leafy underbrush. He seemed to relax as they went on, calming in the shelter of the dark, twisting trees. Before long, he stopped, and sat on the stump of a tree, examining his nails. Harry slipped into a nearby tangle of shrubs and waited. And waited. And waited and waited and waited. He grew impatient; the noises of the forest fed on his agitation, but Malfoy remained unperturbed. Nearly two hours passed before a dark shape emerged from the spot on which Malfoy had fixed his gaze.

"You're late," he said. His nearly white hair glittered in slim patches of moonlight that found their way through the canopy above.

"I am not late, Mr Malfoy, you are early," the throaty voice murmured. His – the voice was definitely male – cloak swished ominously.

"Well, then?" Malfoy said, "What is it that's so dreadfully important?"

"You have a task," the figure said, remaining partially hidden in the shadows, "From the Dark Lord,"

Malfoy shrugged as though such news was entirely commonplace. The figure stepped forward and blocked Harry's view, "Do not take this lightly, Malfoy," he said. Something in Harry's mind clicked – it was Snape! "Though it should hardly be a challenge for you," Snape stopped and whirled around.

"Well?" Malfoy drawled.

"Well, what?" Snape muttered.

"What am I supposed to be doing?"

Snape muttered something indiscernible.

"What?" Malfoy said.

"You were followed!" he hissed, edging closer to Harry, "There is someone here, you fool! Back to the castle, I will inform you of your duty tomorrow!"

"But-"

"I said leave!"

Malfoy, obviously ill-disposed towards being ordered around, crashed back through the bushes and trees like a sullen child, while Snape's sallow fingers searched the darkness, ever edging closer and closer to Harry where he hid.

"AAGH!" he shrieked when he felt the cold tips of those spidery fingers brushing his nose.

"POTTER!" Snape roared, but Harry was already gone, following Malfoy's path through the dense underbrush. His feet pounded mercilessly upon the dark earth, then the grass of the lawn, the stairs, the stone of the corridors. Sweat snaked down his forehead, his loud and ragged breathing echoing.

"Mimbulus Mimbletonia!" he panted at the fat lady, at long last.

"Well, well, well," she smirked at him, "You were…merely out for an evening run, I suppose?"

"Let me in!" he grumbled.

"Alright, alright, there you are!" she said, in a highly miffed tone as she swung forward to admit him.

Immediately upon entering the common room, he was accosted by Hermione, who nearly choked him in a mammoth embrace.

"Harry!" she said, "Oh, thank gods, you've been gone for nearly three hours! Where were you?"

"Forbidden Forest," he said breathlessly, and recounted the past hours as quickly as he could for his friends.

"So…so Malfoy's working for…for you-know-who?" Ron said incredulously, "Blimey…what's he doing?"

"That's the problem," Harry said grimly, "We don't know,"


	2. Smashed

**Chapter 2: Smashed**

**Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, no profit is being made from this.**

"Harry, we've got to find out what he's up to," Hermione said the next morning at breakfast.

"Obviously," Ron said, "But how? It's not as if we can just walk up to him and say 'hey mate, great morning, isn't it, and by the way, what are you doing for you-know-who', is it?"

"Of course not," Hermione buttered her toast briskly, "We're going to have to be cleverer than that, aren't we?

"Where is Malfoy, anyway?" harry said. He'd scanned the Slytherin table twice, and seen no trace of the boy in question, or his cronies.

"He's in the hospital wing, didn't you hear?" Hermione said.

"No!" both Ron and Harry burst out, "Why?"

"Well, it was that party last night, of course," Hermione chuckled, "It got pretty out of hand in the Slytherin common room. Malfoy and his goons passed out drunk on some firewhiskey they'd stolen. As soon as they wake up, they've got detention for a month,"

"Serves the stupid gits right, but it doesn't help us," Harry grumbled.

"Yeah…," Ron looked uncharacteristically pensive, "Yeah, yeah, it does! Harry – you can get him drunk, and then all you've got to do is ask him, and he'll tell you. He probably won't even remember it!"

"Yeah, because Malfoy and I drink together all the time, we're real old chums," Harry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah, you do," Ron grinned, "At least, you do if you take the polyjuice potion and turn into some Slytherin bloke. I mean, we've made it before, it shouldn't be too difficult to do it again, should it?"

Harry and Hermione both gaped at him. "Ron," Harry said, clearly astonished, "Since when are you brilliant?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron crossed his arms indignantly.

"Well, I, for one, am impressed," Hermione said, "Now let's go, we've got potions first, and we'll need to steal some Boomslang Skin,"

Despite the fact that they were double potions and history of magic, that morning's lessons passed by quickly. Hermione, brilliant as usual, managed to steal what they needed while Professor Snape was abusing Neville for his particularly dismal failure. At lunch time, Ron, Harry and Hermione gathered in the same abandoned bathroom they'd used as second years, where they met one particularly daunting obstacle.

"No!" moaning Myrtle shrieked, "Get out! I'll tell everyone what you're doing if you don't!"

"Myrtle, please," Hermione said gently, "You've got no idea what this may mean-"

"Oh, no, of course I don't, I'm dead, there's no way I could ever know the magnitude of anything, is there?" she railed, fully sobbing by this point.

"No, that's not what she meant, Myrtle, really!" Harry said, "Really, just – we'll do anything, just let us stay and don't tell anyone what we're doing. Anything, I swear,"

"Anything?" Myrtle whimpered as she sidled closer to Harry.

"A-anything," Harry stammered resolutely.

"How about a kiss?" the ghost giggled.

"Er-"

"You said anything!"

"Yeah, alright," Harry shot a look-of-death at Ron, daring him to laugh. Mercifully, he stayed silent (albeit biting down on his lip and turning an unattractive shade of puce).

Cackling in delight, Myrtle swooped down on Harry and pressed her spectral lips to his living ones. Kissing a ghost wasn't an experience Harry ever thought he'd have, but now that he had, he decided it was something he never wanted to repeat. Electrical shivers racked their way down his spine and his entire mouth felt frozen, even after Myrtle had released him and zoomed away down the s-bend.

"Never again," Harry muttered bitterly, "Never, ever, ever again,"

Ron snorted in laughter. Harry chucked his shoe at him, and Hermione muttered something that sounded very much like "Boys!"

Meanwhile, the Slytherin common room was in a shambles. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle had awoken in the hospital wing with splitting headaches, for which they had been given a potion before being told to go clean the common room as their first detention.

"Why can't the house-elves do this?" Crabbe grumbled.

"It's supposed to teach us a lesson or something," Malfoy sneered as he righted a toppled couch with a flick of his wand.

"We were just having a bit of fun, is all," Goyle said.

Malfoy leaned against the stone wall nonchalantly, "Well, I wouldn't expect that old hag Dumbledore to understand that. Gods, Professor Snape is going to kill me for this,"

"Why?" Goyle said while he and Crabbe fought over the remnants of a bottle of wine.

"Because," Malfoy said with an insouciant smirk, "I've got a task to do. For _him_,"

Goyle dropped the heavy glass bottle. His ape-like features arranged themselves into a look of astonishment.

"That's right," Malfoy said, "And I doubt I'll be able to do it, if I'm in detention every day for the next month,"

"For…for him?" Crabbe appeared not to have absorbed a single word beyond this.

"Yes, you idiots, for him!"

"Well, what is it?"

"I can't tell you," Malfoy was taking delight in taunting them, "It's part of some plan he has. And he says he needs my help with it, but I'm supposed to keep it secret,"

Proud though he was, he couldn't keep the fear from reaching his voice.


	3. Transparent

**Chapter 3: Transparent**

**Disclaimer: Characters still aren't mine.**

**Warning: Pre-smut, if you will. Drinking, partying.**

The next two months passed relatively without incident. Of course, Harry and Malfoy had their bouts of hexing one another in the corridors, and the Gryffindors were suffering under the malicious reign of Umbridge, but all seemed to go as planned. It was the just beginning to fade into the biting cold of true winter when Harry snuck into the Slytherin's quidditch locker rooms and stole Blaise Zabini's robes (he had detention that night) in preparation to party with Draco Malfoy.

"You've got to be really careful, Harry," Hermione cautioned, "Remember to take the potion every hour on the hour, _exactly_, or-"

"Hermione, he knows!" Ron interjected, "Good luck, mate," he said to Harry, "And make sure _you_ don't get drunk, I mean, I've heard stories about what goes on at those Slytherin parties-"

"Ron! You're not helping!" Hermione snapped, "Good luck, Harry! Now – go!"

The walk to the Slytherin common room was spent racking his brains for a way to get in without knowing the password. The best he could come up with was to hang back in the shadows and wait until someone else came, and sneak in behind them. Fortunately, the first people he came across were Crabbe and Goyle, their arms laden with food. They were too thick to question why he'd suddenly forgotten the password, or why he was there when he was supposed to be doing detention for McGonagall. The rest of Slytherin house, however, wasn't quite so dull.

"Zabini?" Malfoy said immediately upon noticing his entrance, "I thought you had detention tonight,"

"Er," Harry said. He hadn't thought of this, "I…I wouldn't miss this…er…I'll do the detention tomorrow,"

Malfoy appraised him for a moment. Harry's heart pounded against his ribcage – did Malfoy suspect? Was this something the real Blaise would do? "Good," he said at long last, "That old cow's not worth missing this party,"

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Part of him wanted to defend McGonagall, but another, slightly larger part agreed with Malfoy (he never thought that day would come).

"Yeah," he agreed, "Yeah, definitely,"

"Cheers," Malfoy smirked and handed Harry/Blaise a generous shot of firewhiskey, "To November the 23, the birthday of our house's founder," the blonde boy upended his shot immediately, but Harry was hesitant. He couldn't get drunk, especially not after what Ron said…but one shot couldn't hurt, especially with Malfoy staring at him so expectantly. He raised the glass to his lips and drank is slowly, staring into Malfoy's stormy gray eyes. The amber liquid burned its way down his throat ruthlessly, but once it reached his stomach, it blossomed into an intoxicating warmth that spread through him, glowing.

"Gods, Blaise, you look like it's the first time you've tried this stuff," Malfoy snickered.

"Oh- no, it's just…a really good year," Harry stammered.

"That it is," Malfoy inclined his head, "I'm having another,"

Harry couldn't stop himself from grinning. Judging by the size of the shots he poured, Malfoy was going to do it all for him. He'd just have to pick the right time to ask. It should be ridiculously easy – except for _that_. Pansy Parkinson. The pug-faced girl was already all over Malfoy, completely pissed by the looks of it. She was giggling and batting her eyelashes like a Barbie on crack, positively fawning over him. Harry rolled his eyes and turned away, and was promptly sucked onto the makeshift dance floor in the centre of the room by the sheer energy of the crowd.

"Blaise!" a petite, dark-haired girl caught his hand and pulled him to her, "Blaise. Hi. How've you been?"

"What? Oh – er – good, you know-" he didn't get a chance to say much more, however, because she kissed him, hard and deep. Her tongue pushed past his stunned lips, still warm from her last shot of firewhiskey. Taking advantage of having caught Harry off guard, she manoeuvred them off the dance floor and pushed him down onto an emerald green sofa.

"Blaise," she said softly when they finally broke apart, "I love you,"

"I –um-" he stuttered. He could think of nothing to do now but kiss her, so he did, not quite with as much fervour as she had him, but still hard. Let her interpret it how she would, he decided, and let the real Blaise deal with it in the morning.

"Well, well, well," Malfoy said. He looked down on the pair entwined on the sofa, a half empty bottle of firewhiskey clutched in his hand, "Nice one, Blaise,"

"Er. Thanks," Harry said. Just then, the elegant silver clock on the wall chimed – 10 p.m. Harry scrambled for the flask in his robes and gulped a mouthful of the foul-tasting potion. The bubbling sensation in his fingertips abated immediately.

"Zabini. Come get more firewhiskey with me," Malfoy said (or more like ordered).

"Er, Okay," Harry stood and followed Malfoy out through the concealed door. They meandered through the chilly stone corridors, a disconcertingly omniscient grin growing on Malfoy's pale face as they grew farther and farther away from the common room.

"You've been acting strangely, Blaise," Malfoy said softly. He turned sharply and backed Harry into a corner, "And I think I know why,"


	4. You Feel Perfect

**Chapter 4: You Feel Perfect**

**Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling, no profit.**

**Warning: Copious smut, Harry/Draco. **

"Y-you do?" Harry stuttered, subconsciously reaching for his wand.

"Yeah, Blaise, I do," Malfoy slowly laced his fingers into Harry's. Blaise's. Whatever. His face was inches from Harry's own, flushed with alcohol and ardour. He drew his hands up and pinned Harry's arms against the wall above his head. Their hot breath mingled in the heavy air between them. "I do," he repeated, and then his strawberry-pink lips crashed into Harry's, drawing out a small gasp. His tongue slipped past Harry's lips, roaming the inside of his mouth with a tenderness he didn't expect from the vicious Slytherin prince. Harry's mind screamed at him, tried desperately to make him see some kind of reason in the midst of this sudden collision, but his body was giving in to Malfoy's obviously quite experienced touch.

Malfoy pulled away, eliciting a plaintive moan from Harry, "Was I right?" he said impishly. Lightning sparkled in his storm-coloured eyes. Harry was paralyzed, but somehow managed to nod.

"Good," Malfoy said, and caught Harry's mouth again, rougher this time. His hands snaked down, ran through Harry's/Blaise's hair, over his shoulders and the defined muscles of his arms. Harry grabbed his robes and pulled hungrily, lost in the impact of their sudden, unheralded passion. Malfoy smirked and moved to suck his lower lip gently.

"You like that, don't you?" Malfoy moved lower, to his neck, kissing, and biting in small, electrifying circles.

"You're-" Harry gasped, struggling to stifle his sighs, "You're working for Voldemort-!"

"I am," Malfoy said unabashedly, "And so are you, or so I hear, but that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun, does it?"

So Blaise was in on whatever Voldemort's plan was, as well. This was worse than he'd expected.

"Blaise? Is something wrong?"

"No," Harry said, "No, nothing," and with that, he threw his considerably increased weight forward and knocked Malfoy to the floor.

"Oh," he raised his pale eyebrows, those eyes smouldering, "That's how it is, is it?" He kissed Harry again with renewed lust. His hands fumbled with the buttons of Harry's shirt, finally just ripping it aside to expose toned muscles (Harry was extremely grateful for his borrowed body just then, as it was much better endowed than his own). Their lips and tongues crashed together, over and over again, melding in a torrid tangle of limbs and pure physical craving on the frigid stone.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed – that sickening bubbling started in the pit of his stomach. He sat up abruptly.

"I have to go," he choked out.

"What?"

"I have to go!" he took off down the hall, but before he turned the corner and fled to his own common room, impulse took control. He whirled around, well aware that his true appearance was beginning to show, and gave his vowed nemesis one last resonant kiss.

By the time he arrived back at the Gryffindor common room, the effects of the potion had worn off and the robes he'd nicked were barely hanging onto him. The only people left awake were a few seventh years studying, and of course, Ron and Hermione. Harry gulped. The last thing he wanted was to talk to them, after…after…oh, gods, he'd realized, he'd snogged Malfoy! And…and…he'd liked it! His throat went dry. He doubted he could form a coherent sentence if he'd tried, so he dashed – thankfully unnoticed – up the stairs to his dormitory, where he wrenched shut the hangings around his bed and lay, panting.

Malfoy, he thought, of all people it just had to be Malfoy. "That was awful," he muttered to himself, as if saying it aloud would erase the truth, "That was awful and I'll never ever _ever_ do it again,"

'_But you want to_,' a small part of him whispered silkily.

"I do not," he said, "That was repulsive, it was Malfoy, everything about him is just…"

He paused. He could think of several words to fill in that blank. Gorgeous, among them, as well as vile, evil, deceptive…sexy?

No, no, no! Harry fought the sudden urge to break something. This was the first time he could ever recall feeling like he had to keep something from Ron and Hermione, and he thoroughly did not enjoy it.

Sleep was reluctant to come that night, but when it did, it wasn't at all restful. Dark corridors plagued him, locked doors, smoking torches in brackets on shimmering walls and just ahead of him, silvery laughter and white-blonde hair, teasing.

Beckoning.


	5. Preying Mantis

Chapter 5: Preying Mantis

**Chapter 5: Preying Mantis**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters; all events resembling those of the 5****th**** book belong to J.K. Rowling. **

**Warning: Mild swearing.**

The great hall was overhung with a sluggish and sleepy air, as it usually was on Friday mornings. It was all Harry could do to keep from nodding off into his oatmeal. In fact, he probably would have had it not been for Hermione's incessant chatter beside him.

"…of course, it was bound to, there's absolutely no way they could have known, unless Myrtle told them, but obviously she hasn't, I mean, honestly, you'd probably be in the hospital wing, there's no way you could take on all of Slytherin house…anyhow, Harry, how did it go?"

Dimly, Harry sensed to noise stop.

"Harry?"

Ahh, sleep…

"Harry!"

"What?" he groaned. The past night had been absolutely restless.

"How did it go?"

"Oh…" he struggled to find some way around telling them about his encounter with Malfoy, "Well, Ron, you were right, those parties are wild. They were all drunk within the first five seconds…"

"But…did you find out what he's doing for you-know-who?" Ron said thickly, through a mouthful of porridge.

"Er…" Harry gulped, "No. But I did find out that he's working for Voldemort, too,"

"Who?"

"BLAISE!" the shrieking cry rang out from across the hall, closely followed by a more masculine scream. Harry, Ron and Hermione leapt to their feet and ran towards the source of the commotions.

"You wouldn't have anything to do with this, would you, Harry?" Hermione said sharply.

"I don't know!" Harry replied, but as soon as he saw who the quickly forming group of students was centred around, he knew otherwise.

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, Blaise!" a petite and sickeningly familiar Slytherin girl shouted at Blaise Zabini, who was now clutching his face where painful boils had erupted, presumably the result of a curse.

"Honestly, Eleanor!" Zabini said, "I was in detention with McGonagall until midnight!"

"Oh…!" the girl – Eleanor, Harry supposed – was turning a rather unattractive shade of maroon. She hollered an unintelligible jinx that caused Zabini to howl in pain, and finally drew a teacher's attention.

"Miss Finch!" the tiny Professor Flitwick looked scandalized as he pushed his diminutive way through the crowd, "That was entirely unnecessary! Detention! Everyone, go away, there's nothing to see here!"

The students seemed to think otherwise, some laughing, some whispering amongst themselves and some – like Ron – looking utterly confused.

"Did you hear me? Go!" Flitwick shooed them all towards their classrooms. The crowds undulated, shoving and dragging Harry with them while he searched the faces of the Slytherins for a sign of recognition. Most of them were glaring at Zabini or gathered around Eleanor in sympathy, but one pair of eyes met Harry's with electric understanding. A pale eyebrow arched, as if to say, _Is this what you meant to happen?_ and those storm coloured irises flashed.

He couldn't know, Harry thought, it was impossible. Absolutely impossible. He would have had his arse cursed off ten times over if they'd had any idea…

"Harry!" Hermione brought him back to reality.

"Yeah?" he said shakily as they descended the first set of steps towards the dungeons.

"_What happened?_"

"I…er…" he stuttered, "Well…I sort of snogged her. But don't look at me like that! She started it!"

"Nice one, mate," Ron snickered.

"No, um, not nice," Hermione crossed her arms, "You snogged Eleanor Finch? Harry. How could you do that? She's an absolute mess!"

"What?" Harry said, gulping. This couldn't be good.

"You had to have known. Her mum just died, her brother is ill with the same thing that killed her, she's got a _nasty_ temper, even for a Slytherin, and she'd been in _love_ with Blaise Zabini for ages!"

"How're we supposed to have known that?" Ron said.

"You never listen, do you?"

"Not really,"

Hermione was about to retort, but they'd reached the potions classroom by that time, and Snape had just swept into the room, looking murderous. With a flick of his wand, instructions for something obscenely complicated appeared on the blackboard. He glowered around at them, daring them to protest.

When no one did, he whirled around and slammed the door to his office with such ferocity that they heard the tinkling of broken glass from within. They shared a glance, and immediately got to preparing the potion – the draught of the living dead.

They worked in diligent silence for half an hour, until Harry began to feel a creeping sensation sliding up the back of his neck. He shook it off, but like a bothersome fly, it came back, stronger. He turned around, and was immediately met but a tempestuous gaze burning into him from across the dungeon. The Slytherin price smirked in that infuriating way of his, bringing back in a sudden, crashing wave all of Harry's dreams from the previous night. He swallowed. He didn't like this at all, the way Malfoy was looking at him, looking _through_ him…

"_Nice one, Potter_," he mouthed, and abruptly went back to his own potion as though nothing had happened.

Disconcerted though he was, the rest of the class went as usual. When Snape finally emerged from his office to check their potions, he berated the Gryffindors for their failures (as usual) while somehow managing to overlook where the Slytherins had erred (as usual) before sending them off with a particularly nasty comment that nearly reduced Neville to tears.

"What was his problem?" Ron shook his head while they headed to charms.

"Probably got a nasty letter from his mummy reminding him to wash his hair more often or something…" Harry said.

By supper that day, Harry was on the verge of exploding.

Malfoy was everywhere.

_Everywhere_!

Granted, they did have most of their classes together, but the prat would not stop _staring_. Harry wolfed down his food as fast as he could and stalked off for the common room as quickly as he could. There, at least, he could avoid those excruciating eyes. Glancing behind him, he saw Malfoy get up and follow him out.

Something deep within him tightened, but in apprehension or excitement, he couldn't discern.

Of course, he'd expect him to go the common room. Where else would Malfoy never think to tread? An empty classroom? But he couldn't stay there forever…where else could he spend that much time?

The metaphorical light bulb clicked on above his head. The library. That was the last place he'd imagine any Slytherin, let alone this one in particular. Hearing Malfoy's footsteps in the corridor behind him, he sped up, breaking into a frenzied run up the nearest staircase. By the time he reached the Madam Pince-gaurded haven (he never thought he'd be thinking that) his breathing was ragged, and he collapsed against the nearest bookshelf.

Unfortunately, however, he wasn't alone for long.

"Potter," the very one he sought to avoid leant against the end of the shelf, staring imperiously down at him, "You've been acting strangely. And I think I know why,"


	6. Floor Plan

**Chapter Six: Floor Plan**

**Disclaimer: Usual, characters aren't mine (except Eleanor Finch), no profit, etc.**

**Warnings: Smutty goodness, dirty dreams.**

**A/N: Man, I get some weird looks from the people who read over my shoulder when I work on this in class…**

"_Potter," the very one he sought to avoid leant against the end of the shelf, staring imperiously down at him, "You've been acting strangely. And I think I know why," _

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said through clenched teeth. Those words rang with wanton familiarity, but…he couldn't know! He just couldn't!

"I think you do," the Slytherin hissed, sinking to his knees and looking Harry straight in the eyes, "I_ know_ you do,"

"Shove off, Malfoy,"

"Oh, I will, Potter," he sneered, lightning crackling in his storm cloud irises, "But you're not fooling anyone,"

With that, he spun on his heel and headed for the door, leaving Harry subconsciously panting against the bookshelf. He was so…he was so…infuriating, so cocky, with that sultry way be bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, almost – almost, but not quite – unaware of how _damn_ attractive he was! Harry made an indiscriminate noise of frustration and hit his head on the ancient wood behind him, in vain attempt to banish these thoughts. The fact that he harboured anything other than venomous, flaming hatred for any Slytherin, let alone Malfoy, was practically cause for committing seppuku. What would Ron say if he knew? He'd probably consider it personal betrayal and never speak to him again…and Hermione? He could envision the disgust on her face. What about Sirius, the closest thing he had to a father…? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, he was guilty, and here was all the evidence needed to sentence him to a lifetime of degrading. Tears prickled the edges of his vision, forcing him to close his eyes rather than let them fall. He would not cry, he would not cry, not over Malfoy, he would _not_ cry…

"Harry?"

He opened his eyes, forcing the salty drops back to their bitter source. Hermione and Ron knelt in front of him, their faces perfect masks of concern and sympathy. He almost gagged…if they knew…

"We saw – Malfoy just left – are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Hermione, I'm fine, but…He knows," Harry said heavily.

"What? Who told him?" Ron looked scandalized.

"Obviously," Hermione slapped her forehead, "Blaise! They must have pieced it together by now. Oh – we're going to have to do something-"

"What?" Ron said, "The only thing that would work is to modify Zabini's memory, make him think he was at that party, and there's no way we can learn how to do that before they figure it all out and attack us in our sleep or something…"

"I can," Hermione said briskly, "I learned over the summer, I figured…it might be a useful thing to know how to do, now that you-know-who is back…"

Ron's and Harry's jaws hit the floor, "Do you ever stop, Hermione? You're making us feel inadequate, here," Harry grumbled.

"Oh, well, if you'd rather I not, if you'd rather get _attacked in your sleep_-"

"No! No, Hermione, honestly, we love you," Ron amended quickly.

Hermione grinned, "Let's get going then,"

--pagebreak--that--won't--show--up--

Morning. He hated morning. Why, _why_, did it always take so long to arrive? It had to leave him there, tossing and turning in the murderous grip of his sheets, drenched with cold, shivery sweat, dreaming…Gods, he was exhausted…he struggled against it, but the deep velvet waves of sleep enfolded him and pulled him down again.

He was walking the dark corridor he'd gotten used to seeing, a malevolent, slithering presence at his side…he was following it, it was taking him somewhere…leading him, towards that locked door…he was reaching out, he was going to open it, finally!

His fingertips were there, brushing over the gold-plated surface of the handle, when a strong, milky skinned arm caught him around the waist, pulling him back into a burning grip. He rested there, burying his face in the warm crook between neck and shoulder, until Malfoy's tempestuous eyes found his, wanting. Their hips ground together in a torrid collision, and their lips found one another. It was perfect, perfect, they melded together, wrapped up in one another's limbs, craving more, more touch. Without pause, clothes were shed and whispered to the floor, tactfully silent. Eager gasps and moans heated the frigid air between them, they were burning –

"Harry! Wake up, mate!"

Harry recoiled from the dream, none too willingly, to find Ron standing over him, backlit by a sliver of early dawn light creeping through the window into their dormitory.

"What?" he said, "It's too bloody early!"

"I know," Ron yawned, "But Hermione wants to get down to the dungeons and modify Zabini's memory before the entire school wakes up,"

"Fine,"

Grudgingly, Harry followed Ron and Hermione down to the dungeons, where they waited behind a corner, watching for their target. Fortunately, he came out alone, rubbing his eyes sleepily, his shirt buttoned wrong. His skin was covered in miniscule red dots, as though he'd dived into a pit of needles…

"The needles curse," Hermione whispered, "I told you Eleanor Finch has a nasty temper," And she proceeded to go about her work, muttering spells that first wiped Zabini's face completely blank, then caused him to keep walking as though nothing had happened. Ron stared at her in awe.

"Hermione, you are honestly the most brilliant witch that's ever existed," he breathed.

Hermione preened, "Up to breakfast, then?"

--pagebreak--that--won't--show--up--

As had become their tendency as of late, the day passed torturously slowly. History of Magic afforded him an hour's sleep, but when he woke, he was – if possible – more exhausted than he had been before.

"You okay, Harry?" Ron said as they climbed the silver ladder to the divination room.

"Yeah," he yawned heavily, "Fine,"

"Good morning, class, good morning," Trelawney sighed in her usual mystical manner, directing them all to take seats at tables containing crystal balls and battered copies of some useless book, "My divings using the orb, as of late, have been very…enlightening, shall was say," – she eyed Harry knowingly – "Today, you will attempt to read it's crystalline depths as I have, and perhaps you, as well, will come to know a few of this universe's divine secrets. Go ahead, now, go ahead…"

Harry and Ron exchanged their customary I-really-don't-want-to-be-here-but-it's-not-as-though-I've-got-a-choice glance and proceeded to stare blankly into the crystal ball. Before long, Harry

found himself nodding off again, staring into a pair of deep gray eyes…that door, that locked door was just beyond them, right behind Malfoy…  
"I know what you're thinking, Harry," the dream-Malfoy said, "You like me. Love me, even. Oh, what a scandal, the Golden Boy, the noble lion falling for a snake…"

"I do not," Harry grumbled childishly.

"You do, Harry. You know you do, you're _desperately_ in love with me, aren't you?"

"I am not!"

"Ah, _what_ would people say if they knew, oh, this is going to be fun!"

Harry slammed his fists on the spindly table and shouted "I AM NOT IN LOVE WITH MALFOY!"

His eyes fluttered open to find Trelawney glaring at him, "Thank you, Mr Potter, for that clarification, now if you could please get back to work…"

**A/N: Oooohh, what's Harry going to do now, hehehee…Anyway, next update will be fairly soon (Spring break, nothing to do but write) so stop badgering me (you know who you are). Oodles of thanks to everyone who reviewed!!**


	7. Head Like A Hole

**Chapter 7: Head Like A Hole**

**Disclaimer: No profit, don't own.**

**Warning: Mild smut/sexual references, one or two naughty words**

Harry was not in love with Malfoy.

In fact, he was so deeply not in love with Malfoy that he snogged Cho Chang after the last meeting of that Dumbledore's Army thing Hermione had talked him into.

He had snogged Cho Chang, and he had liked it.

Yes, that's right, let it be known that Harry James Potter of Gryffindor House was completely and totally 100 non-Slytherin-loving heterosexual.

It would all be perfect if only he'd stop having those damned dreams! They were getting worse, too…there'd been candles in the last one, and chocolate body paint…

"Bloody hell…" he mumbled to himself, smacking his head on the table in front of him. All around him, 12 Grimmauld Place hummed with activity and that special Christmas buzz, but no one seemed to notice how reluctant he was to take part in any of it. After he had witnessed Arthur Weasley's attack in that dream, a certain extremely unpropitious idea had wormed its way into the milk of his thoughts – that is, if that had been real, what about all those snogging sessions with Malfoy…? They couldn't be real.

If they were, he thought, he'd probably have contracted some dreadful venereal disease by now. And yet…and yet he still couldn't get Malfoy out of his head! It may, he mused, have something to do with the fact that Malfoy was popping up all over the place, lurking perpetually in his peripheral vision with that insouciant smirk of his.

"_Potter," Malfoy had whispered at his ear while they were washing their hands in the stone fountain after a particularly disastrous potions lesson, "Nice move," _

Harry shivered. That particular instance had occurred a week after they'd modified Blaise Zabini's memory. He'd itched to tell Ron and Hermione about the encounter for days after, but he couldn't bear to relive the biting titillation of Malfoy's omniscience. It was eerie, shuddersome, and made him feel as though hiding was and forever would be impossible, but it carried with it a certain lascivious trick…

_There he was again. Well, Harry amended, he was always there, in that corner of the courtyard, but he was staring again, his cronies ever-unaware. That silvery hair – the shade he'd always called Barbie-blonde before – phosphoresced even in the dull winter light, and his eyes matched the soft, wistful gray of the gossamer clouds hanging low over the mountains in the distance._

"_Harry?" Ron said, snapping him back into their conversation and practically making him gag – since when did he enjoy staring at Malfoy? Gods, this was all wrong…_

"_This is really bad, you guys…" Hermione wrung her hands, twisting the chapped fingers of each in turn, "We still don't know what Malfoy and Zabini are supposed to be doing,"_

Harry groaned. True that was…they still hadn't gotten any closer to solving the mystery that had set him on this lust-stuck trip in the first place. For an instant, he resented his friends – why did he have to be the one who got stuck doing all this – posing as the enemy, fighting off dementors, fighting off _Voldemort. _He gulped, sickened by his own thoughts. Without Ron and Hermione, he wouldn't even be here…

_His jaw dropped. Life – fate – whatever entity was out there - was cruel. Sitting there on the shining floor, condemned to join him in his trophy-polishing detention with Filch, was Malfoy. Of course, he shouldn't have been so surprised. The whole reason they were in detention was because they'd gotten into a minor duel in the hallway between transfiguration and charms, but all the more reason to have them serve their detentions separately! _

"_Now," Filch wheezed, absently stroking Mrs Norris's matted fur, "You two filthy little rule-breakers are going to polish the trophies. All of them. Without magic. Have fun," The sound that followed – somewhere between a hacking cough and a cackle – Harry could only assume was the senile old care taker's version of a laugh. He retreated into the shadows to watch him and murmur softy to his equally bedraggled cat._

"_Oh, Potter," Malfoy sighed softly, feigning impasse, "If only you could control that nasty, nasty temper of yours…then we'd both be up in our common rooms, comfortably plotting how best to vex the other…isn't this life grand?" _

"_You attacked me," Harry hissed._

"_Quite the contrary, actually, if you think about it," the insidious Slytherin prince laughed softly, _

_"What do you mean?" Harry glowered at him._

"_Oh, of course, of course, well…Harry, I know you know what I mean. Please don't make me say it. Playing dumb is much more Zabini's style, don't you think? Poor Eleanor, she never got over him. Of course, I don't think I could, either, he's gorgeous," _

_Harry said nothing. He still had no concrete evidence that Malfoy actually knew what they'd done, but all these subtle hints and intimations were driving him crazy. How very Slytherin, he thought, how cowardly, to lead someone on like this-_

"_Potter," Malfoy said drily._

_Harry's head jerked up, "What?" he snapped._

"_No need to get snappy," the blonde archfiend said, his strawberry lips turned upwards in a guileful smirk, "I was just going to point out that you've been cleaning that same shield for the past ten minutes, and if we want to be out of here before midnight, you ought to get going,"_

"_Oh," Harry said._

_Neither said another word the rest of the night. When Harry returned to the common room, the fire had dimmed to a few flushed embers, and everyone – including Ron and Hermione, he noted with a mingling of relief and dejection. Though, he supposed, it was all for the best, because he couldn't exactly tell them about how seeing Malfoy's fox-like grin made his cardiac humming bird flutter faster, how…oh, he berated himself, it was useless._

_He dreamed of strawberry fields that night, cherry cola and snowstorms burning, and the object of his preternatural lust. The pair of them rolled over and over, vying for dominance but loving submission, and covered in the sticky blood of the sweet summer fruit._

That had been a good dream, Harry remembered, but waking up had been agony – the real world and that of his dreams were polar opposites, pulling away from one another and threatening to tear him – the one lost in the gale, in the middle – in two.

He at last lifted his head, recoiled from his reverie and rejoined the idle chatter of the rest of the population of the headquarters as they ate Mrs Weasley's excellent supper and resolved to talk to Sirius.

--page break--

Harry cleared his throat, unsure how to begin. He had finally managed to get Sirius alone, and now it looked as though he'd never even ask what he'd meant to ask in the first place.

Sirius looked at him placidly. "Something's bothering you, Harry," he said, so like a father.

Harry nodded, "Well," he started, "It's sort of…that I've been…er…fancying someone,"

Sirius nodded, "Go on,"

"And…Ron and Hermione…and the rest of my friends, all of Gryffindor house, really, they don't like this particular someone, and I haven't talked to them about it because…because I haven't, and I'm not sure if this someone fancies me as well, because they keep hinting at…at something, I don't know, Sirius…what do I do?"

Sirius broke into a grin, the first real smile Harry had seen from him in a long while, "Harry, Harry," he said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "Ron and Hermione – you can trust them. As for the rest of your house, who gives a rat's ass what they think? It's your life, not theirs. Fancy whoever you want Harry, it's all the same to me," Sirius chuckled, and Harry felt some of that rapturous weight lift off his chest, "…unless, of course, it's Draco Malfoy," Sirius laughed again.

Harry sighed.

He was fucked.

--page break--

A/N: Bahaha, Harry opens up and look what he gets! Stuff like this is probably why he's so angsty. Love. Anyway, title (thought I'd mention to protect myself from copyright infringement and whatnot) is taken from the title of a Nine Inch Nails song (because I was listening to it while I wrote this). Reviews are loved, and thanks to everyone who's been reading & reviewing so far!


	8. A La Mode, A La Mort

**Chapter 8: A La Mode, A La Mort**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, etc, etc.**

**Warning: Mild smut, swearing.**

_The Christmas holidays – everything, in fact – were going swimmingly._

_As usual, four or five of the most prominent pureblood families had gathered together for a five-day holiday "get-together", which was actually better described as the most ostentatious soiree widardkind could ever hope to see…and, as usual, Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini had managed to slip away amid all the commotion and find someplace quiet and secluded – this time, the plum velvet sofa in front of a fireplace in a deserted corner of the Malfoy Manor's library._

"_So how's you little 'mission' going?" Blaise yawned as he ran a hand through his lover's silky hair._

"_Exquisitely," Draco purred into Blaise's Quidditch-toned chest._

_Blaise sat up, momentarily displacing his paramour. "You mean you're actually…?" he couldn't bring himself to say it. Draco bit his lip and nodded. _

"_Ew!" Blaise fully stood up, knocking Draco to the deep blue carpet, "That is…repulsive, I can't believe you! Draco! I thought you had standards!"_

"_But-"_

"_No!" Blaise insisted (he couldn't keep the chuckle from his voice), "Don't touch me, I'm leaving!" _

"_Blaise!" Draco called, "Come back! I can't find my shirt, and if I go out there, Parkinson with absolutely rape me, do you want that on your conscience?" _

_Blaise just snickered, hiding behind a bookshelf. Stubborn as Draco was, he knew he'd come after him._

"_Blaise!" his voice was getting closer._

"_Keep searching, sweetheart!"_

"_Ugh, you're so mean," Draco whined._

"_Come on…"_

"_Blaise! I – oh, there you are," the blonde demon smiled up at his flame through a curtain of damp hair, his eyes flashing vexatiously. _

"_See, I knew you'd find me. It just takes patience, little dragon," Blaise murmured, pressing their foreheads together with a taunting grin._

"_Fuck you," Draco sighed petulantly and pulled his inamorato into a soul-searing kiss. _

"_You really have to do this?" Blaise whispered when they pulled apart. Draco nodded. "Uuuggghhh, that is so gross," _

"_Let's make the most of this, then," Draco whispered into his neck, kissing down to his collarbone._

"_Say no more," Blaise's grin widened and in one swift motion, he swept Draco up and carried him back to the sofa. _

"_Blaise…" Draco moaned, but he was but off by Blaise's tongue, gently roaming over his lips and pushing into his mouth, tender and alight with biting ardour all once, tasting of dark chocolate truffles and absinthe, they were interwoven atop the velvet, their skin shining, translucent, like pearls in the firelight. Their bodies melted and feathered in as though they were made for one another, every tenuous curve fitting together like pieces of some cosmic puzzle, like Botticelli angels. _

Harry's eyes flew open. His heart was hammering in his chest, beating relentlessly at his ribs as though trying to break free. _What a weird dream_, he thought, _Zabini and Malfoy?_ Well, it was better than he and Malfoy, at any rate…even though the entire time he had been wishing he was in Zabini's place. He sighed, rolling over onto his side and staring at the ragged curtains concealing the single window. The sky outside was slowly being diluted into a dusky gray, but no blazing sun had peaked over the horizon yet. Too early…he was going to fail his O.W.L. exams for sure if he didn't start getting more sleep. Resolutely, he shut his eyes and drifted back into a fitful and palpitant sleep.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a--k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k--p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a--k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

"You're going to _what_?" Lucius Malfoy's jaw hit floor. His son had just informed him, over dinner, of exactly how he planned on carrying out the Dark Lord's orders, and frankly, Lucius was on the verge of flat-out forbidding him to do it. But, it was Draco's mission of sorts, and there wasn't a lot he could do about it…

"It's sickening, isn't it?" Blaise grimaced, "I almost had a conniption when he told me,"

"Draco," Narcissa Malfoy said warily, "Don't you…don't you think there's a rather better way of going about doing this?"

Draco shrugged, "Well, I've already started; I might as well finish it off,"

"I'm going to be sick. Absolutely sick," Snape muttered bitterly, pushing his plate away from him.

"I might have to join you in that, Professor," Pansy Parkinson snickered, though she looked much more amused than sickened, "Can I watch?"

"Pansy!" Blaise exclaimed, "He won't let me watch, and if I can't, no one can. Back off, tramp!"

"Whoa," Pansy's eyes flitted from Blaise to Draco to their clasped hands and back again, "You two are…are…really?"

"Yes, really, Miss Parkinson," Lucius said silkily, "In fact, I suffered the enlightenment by walking in on them going at it in the library. If I were you, I would avoid sitting on that sofa next to the large fireplace,"

The table erupted into snickers, and Draco and Blaise moved closer to one another.

"Oh, fuck off," Draco scowled.

"That's enough!" Narcissa said, "Draco, Blaise, Pansy. You're going back to school tomorrow. Go pack,"

"But-"

"Mother-"

"Can you please tell them not to-"

"Go," Mrs Malfoy insisted, "And Draco – Blaise – no…doing whatever it is you were doing in the library,"

"Well said, Narcissa," Severus commented. She slapped him lightly. In the shadows of the darkened study three floors up, Lord Voldemort laughed at their antics, and deep in the heart of London, Harry Potter's scar shot through with searing pain.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a--k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k--p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a--k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

A/N: Hm, yeah, lame ending, but I didn't sleep at all last night, and my parents made me get up (despite it being spring break and my having no real reason to do anything). So, I actually have homework, for creative writing, but my smut addictions have me writing this…major smut next chapter, loves, I can't wait to write it. I've never written slash before, which is surprising, considering that Draco/Harry or Draco/Blaise pairings are often the stuff of my dreams, even though I find Daniel Radcliffe in no way attractive. Anyway, title of this one is "With Fashion, With Death" in French and is also the title of an Angelspit song. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, especially Xanafan1500 and Enigmus, who have read and reviewed consistently. Love Cake


	9. Like Nails In A Board

**Chapter 9: Like Nails In A Board**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, etc.**

**Warning: Smutalicious, naughty words.**

_Dear Snuffles –_

_Well, I'm back at Hogwarts, but I'm almost unhappy about it. That thing that I've been writing to you about keeps happening, and it's getting worse. That other thing, the one we told you about over holiday…we've gotten nowhere. Hermione and Ron seem…distant, if anything. I can't tell you too much here, but I hope we can find some way of talking that safe for both of us._

_Harry_

Despite their extremely awkward holiday encounter, Harry still had the feeling that Sirius understood best what he was feeling. He desperately hoped his godfather would take the hint and not attempt to contact them through the fire again, but he couldn't very well say that outright. He reread his letter for the third time before tying it to the leg of a school barn owl and sending it off. He watched it go, flying farther and farther until it was nothing more than a speck, a minute blemish in the magnificent, austere face of the setting sun.

He sighed.

It was true what he'd said in the letter; they'd still found out nothing about Malfoy and Zabini's plans, and it didn't look as though it was going to get any easier – Umbridge was in an absolutely foul mood, handing out detentions as often as Professor Trelawney predicted Harry's death, and Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.

_This is exactly what Voldemort wants_, he thought, _He wants us separated. That stupid hat was right…_

The owl had vanished into the brilliant titian blaze on the horizon, and night was descending slowly, wrapping the castle in its silken dark wings. Somewhat reluctantly, Harry turned back and headed for the common room; Filch had been far too elated when overseeing detentions lately, and he had no desire to find out why.

Ambivalently, he wandered through the corridors, letting his mind do the same, and finding it lingering, yet again, on a certain pair of squall-gray eyes, porcelain skin and enigmatic smiles. There was something alluring about such an aberrant desire, something sweet about having such a tremulous secret, but synchronically, it was tearing him apart. He almost laughed; he was finally experiencing the normal who-fancies-who problems of others his age rather than worrying about plots to kill him and/or overthrow the Ministry of Magic and rule the entire wizarding race.

"Hey Potter," a velvety voice at his ear came out of nowhere.

He whirled around, "Malfoy!" – He blushed furiously – could those dreams be read from his face? – "What do you want?"

"Just to talk," Malfoy said innocently, widening those prodigiously gorgeous eyes.

Harry clasped his wand, but kept his hand in his pocket, "Alright. Talk, then,"

"How was your holiday?"

Harry blinked. _How was his holiday_? Those were the words, uttered in a light and conversational tone, even, that fell from Draco Malfoy's perfect lips? "It was- it was fine. Great. How was yours?" he stuttered, more than a little thrown off.

"Divine, as usual. Father locked up the firewhiskey this year though, but I suppose I can't really blame him after last year…did you know Pansy Parkinson got so drunk she decided to levitate herself off the roof? Didn't last very long. She fell, nearly snapped her neck," the Slytherin replied, examining his nails before turning to Harry with an impassioned stare, "Nice move, that was, Potter," he hissed, "Modifying Blaise Zabini's memory,"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said, gripping his wand harder.

"Oh, please," Malfoy rolled his eyes, and edged closer to Harry "Did you honestly think I wouldn't know it was you? Your mudblood is friend is more than clever enough to make a polyjuice potion, and besides, I've been here four and a half years. I know just as well as you do that McGonagall would never let anyone get away with skipping detention, and the real Blaise never would have snogged Eleanor like that. He hates her. And you were so surprised when I kissed you…whereas, Blaise and I have had… _relations_ more than a few times,"

Harry was speechless, opening and closing his mouth. Fury built in waves, emanating through him, threatening to crack his skin and spill through.

"You can't be that surprised, Potter,"

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry growled, as coolly as he could manage.

"Look at this tangle of thorns, Harry," Malfoy whispered, standing just centimetres from his adversary, firewhiskey palpable on his breath, "The Boy Who Lived, torn in two by rapaciousness for his Slytherin foe. We could be a novel, Potter, the kind the desperate lovers read at night. Longing. Let go of your wand. You know you want this,"

Harry's breath came in frenzied gasps, that traitorous organ the heart hammering thunderously, as though trying to give away his barely contained lust.

"I hate you," he spat.

"I know," the radiant nightmare before him purred.

A second's pause, and before he knew what was happening, their lips had collided, penetrating hungrily in a mad distemper of odium and licentiousness. Harry hadn't before grasped how much he'd wanted – needed – this sinful release, this freeing of pent-up frustration and directionless salacity.

"See," Malfoy broke their insatiate kiss, "I told you…"

With an indiscriminate noise of flaming need, he shoved his flame through the nearest door and followed him to the pleasantly cool tile of the floor. He vaguely recognized that the room was a deserted bathroom before Malfoy had rolled on top of him and was ravishing his mouth again, punctuating violent kisses with tender bites. Harry raked his hands through that silvery hair impatiently, ripping at it with unrestrained lust. Liquid fire rushed through his pulsing veins to his groin, growing, churning, until Malfoy broke their kiss and murmured, "Is that your wand in your pocket, or…?"

"Shut up," he growled and captured those strawberry lips again, ripping away their robes and casting them carelessly aside, clawing up and down the smooth muscles of Malfoy's back. So unholy, the delicious friction of their hips grinding together, moans pouring from mouth to mouth, both pairs of hands searching frantically for more skin to caress, to bite, to ravish in sinful euphoria.

"Still hate me?" a voice like liquid silk slithered into Harry's ear, closely followed by Draco's tongue tracing circles down his neck.

"Yes," Harry said resolutely.

"I think that can change…in time…"

"You mean…?" Harry pushed himself up and searched the smouldering eyes of his foe.

"You're an amusing little fucktoy, Potter," Much to Harry's reluctance, they separated and donned their robes again, buttoning their shirts and fixing their mussed hair, "I'll come for you, don't worry,"

Harry debated telling him that it had better be soon, but decided against it. He didn't want to sound too desperate, didn't want to give in to the true depth of his ardour. He sensed the precarious balance of all this, made more delicate still by the fact that they'd both be disowned by all their friends and housemates if they were ever found out. Somewhere between reaching for the handle of the door and allowing himself one last glance at that snakelike perfection, Malfoy had grabbed him and wrenched him into a brutal, searing kiss, biting down on the sensitive skin of his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, before stalking off down the corridor with infuriating cockiness.

"I'll see you later, Potter," he sing-songed, and disappeared down the staircase towards the dungeons.

This couldn't last long, Harry mused, but it was far better than fruitless dreams of empty corridors. The walk to the common room seemed to be much shorter than usual, at ease as he was, and he climbed confidently through the portrait hole and settled himself between Ron and Hermione. The rest of the evening passed in a happy lull of chatter and homework. Ron was just lamenting the difficulty of Snape's latest monstrosity of an essay when Harry's scar shot through with blazing pain.

"What, what is it, Harry?!" Hermione gasped.

"He's…" Harry hesitated, and allowed the unwelcome malaise to fill him up. He sensed a dark room, and a pale, serpentine face…malicious laughter welling up, bubbling over in nefarious waves, "He's happy. Something…something good's happening,"

"Oh, no…" Hermione whispered, "Harry, we've got to find out what Malfoy and Zabini are doing,"

"How, though?" Ron said.

"Well, I think our only option is the polyjuice potion. I saved what we had left over from last term,"

Harry gulped, "Alright, who am I to impersonate this time?"

"No, no, you can't do it, Harry, he already suspects you," Hermione furrowed her brow and glanced up at Ron, who immediately shoved his chair back and shook his head emphatically.

"Alright, fine!" she sighed, "I'll go, as…as Parkinson,"

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

A/N: Well, that was fun to write. Leave it to me to have the first major smut chapter be the longest. I had the hardest time coming up with a title for this one. It started out as Wreath of Barbs (song by wumpscut) the changed to As You Are (from Transparent by Porcelain and the Tramps, then Touch of the Velvet Hand (from Happiness Is A Warm Gun/Beatles) then Wounded, Bruised (The Word of Your Body/Spring Awakening) and finally settled on Like Nails In A Board (Like O, Like H/Tegan and Sara) As always, thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing. Much love/Cake


	10. Bullet On The Tracks

**Chapter 10: Bullet On The Tracks**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, JKR is the genius.**

**Warnings: Lots of naughty words, mild smut…**

"Harry, you have detention tonight, with McGonagall. Eight o'clock,"

"What?!" Harry spat his orange juice halfway across the breakfast table and glared up at Hermione, "What'd I do?"

Ron looked equally indignant, but was unable to speak owing to the large amount of scrambled egg occupying his mouth.

"Oh, honestly, Ron, that is disgusting," Hermione wrinkled her nose and turned back to Harry, "You haven't done anything, yet, but you need to get detention tonight, in front of Malfoy so he knows where you are. Parkinson is in the hospital wing – Quidditch accident – and I'm going to take her place tonight. I doubt he's suspect me, because…well, because-"

"You're the Prefect Hermione Granger, Miss I've-never-broken-a-rule-and-the-day-I-do-will-probably-bring-the-apoclaypse?" Ron finished for her. Harry snorted into his breakfast.

"No…or…yes, just…oh, Ronald!" she hit him upside the head and slid into her seat. Harry shook his head, subconsciously wondering when they were going to get over themselves and admit that they were made for one another.

Harry spent the rest of that day wondering what he could possibly do to land himself in detention. He didn't want to be rude to McGonagall, or start a duel in class, or suck anyone else into it with him, but the opportunity presented itself on a golden platter. When the stern head-of-house called for their latest essay to be turned in, Harry found that it had abstrusely disappeared from his bag. A quick glance at a smirking Hermione told him all he needed to know.

"Potter? Do you have your essay?" McGonagall peered at him over her spectacles.

"Er. No, Professor," he stammered to a chorus of the Slytherins' snickers.

"Very well. You will do it in detention tonight, 8 o'clock,"

He nodded meekly and returned to attempting to turn his parrot into a hat.

"How'd you know she'd give him detention?" Ron asked incredulously as they made their way down to dinner, "Are you sure you dropped divination?"

Hermione tossed him a reproachful look, "She gives detention to anyone who misses a major essay like that, and she has all five of our years here, and here's your essay, Harry, so you don't have to rewrite the whole thing. But you might want to look over the part about Gamp's second law, it doesn't look quite right,"

For the second time that year, instead of going down to the Great Hall after lessons, the trio snuck into Moaning Myrtle's third floor toilet to retrieve their stash of Polyjuice Potion. Hermione grimaced before gulping the violently pink mixture down as quickly as she could. Almost immediately, her skin began to bubble and stretch grotesquely, her hair lightening to a lustrous blonde, her limbs elongating and her face rearranging into the elegant, haughty structure that in itself flaunted ancient and perfect pureblood lineage.

"Bloody hell," Ron murmured, "She's not half bad looking, is she, without that idiotic simper mutilating her face…"

Hermione-as-Pansy glared at him, "I've got enough with me for two hours. Harry, you had better get to detention, and Ron, make sure Parkinson doesn't get down to the Slytherin common room before half past nine at the very earliest,"

They nodded grimly and parted ways, all three hearts hammering uproariously.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

Hermione was teetering on the verge of having a full-blown conniption. This rangy, porcelain-skinned, _smooth-haired_ body felt about as alien to her as failing an exam would have, let alone the blatant rule – maybe even _law_ – breaking activity. She stumbled, stiff-backed and sweating, down to the dungeons on a pair of high-heeled shoes of the ridiculous kind she'd seen the real Pansy Parkinson wear and slipped into the common room behind the burly figure of Millicent Bullstrode.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the light – or lack thereof – in the emerald-colour room. Illumination appeared only in pockets around a few torches fastened to the walls, bringing into light a few groups of students having raucous conversations, laughing tumultuously, or sharing bottles of firewhiskey, and in the very centre of the room, beneath a chandelier of verdant crystal on a velvet-covered sofa, lay the objects of Hermione's pursuit, thoroughly tied up in one another. _Well_, she thought, _I've always known the Slytherins to be…bizarrely affectionate._

However, it was then that they started necking rather more voraciously than just friends, or even those involved in that ludicrous "friends with benefits" nonsense, could ever managed. She gulped.

"Pansy!" a particularly drunk elfin girl with raven-coloured hair appeared out of nowhere and snaked an arm around Hermione/Pansy's waist, "Gods, I am so sick of them. They've been there for hours. Skipped dinner and everything,"

"You mean Malfoy – er – Draco and Blaise?" Hermione stammered, knowing her assailant to be none other than Eleanor Finch.

"Who _else_ has she been ranting about ever since holiday ended?" another girl – one Hermione recognized from Ancient Runes but whose name was slipping from her mind,

"Er. Right, well. I have to…oh, hell-" for the first and probably last time in her saintly life, she gulped deeply from Eleanor's proffered bottle of firewhiskey, before walking in what she hoped was a bold manner straight up to the two entwined Slytherin princes, and perching on the end of their sofa.

"Do you mind, Parkinson?" Draco drawled lazily as Blaise continued to lick his elegant neck, "We're rather busy, if you hadn't noticed,"

"Oh, no. I had," she said airily, trying desperately to sound as though this was absolutely in every way typical, when nothing was farther from the truth, "I just…need to talk to you,"

As soon as the words fell from her lips, she realized she had no idea where she was going.

Hermione Granger was brilliant at a great many things, but improvising was not one of them. She was well aware of this, and found herself longing for Malfoy to tell her clear off, or else.

"Oh, fine," he sighed and wriggled out from underneath Blaise with apparent great effort, "What is it?"

She beckoned him to a deserted corner; with a slightly disturbing lusty glance at Blaise, he followed.

"Look," she began, feverishly wiping her drenched palms on her robes, "Something's going on, something's gone wrong…with…you know,"

"No, Parkinson, I don't know," he sighed with great exasperation and studied his manicured nails, "Care to enlighten me?"

Gods, was he always such a petulant prat? "The thing, you know…for…Vol- the Dark Lord?"

Bipolar as always, Malfoy's languorous, ardent air vanished in an instant and was replaced with a baneful snarl and an unusually sharp wand at her gut, "Who told you about that?" he hissed venomously.

"No – I – you were-"

"_Who_?"

Hermione shuddered, but said nothing. A split second before Malfoy cried out some undoubtedly vicious curse, she had shouted "_Protego_!" and was gone, vanished out the common room door before the rest of Slytherin house was anything the wiser.

Her heart pummelled her rib cage with such ferocity that by the time she reached the common room – Polyjuice effects fully worn off – she thought it might actually shatter her ribs and burst free.

"Hermione!" Ron burst out, pulling her towards the armchairs he and Harry were situated in, just beyond the reach of the fire's light, "What happened?"

She related the story as fast as she could, finishing wrathfully, "And to top it all off, I found him snogging Blaise Zabini!"

Harry started. There was something terribly ominous about the serpentine jealously that coiled to life within his chest.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

A/N: Title is also a song by The Vincent Black Shadow…I'm currently in a state of deep and intense mourning because my lover Lestat is effectively dead, and I just realized that the entire 23-year extremely detailed calendar I laid out as an outline for my Renaissance death fest novella is useless because I did it in the Julian calendar, when at the time the story takes place, they were still using the Gregorian! Kill me, please. Love/Cake


	11. These Violent Hearts

**Chapter 11: These Violent Hearts**

**Disclaimer: JK Rowling is the genius.**

**Warnings: Nothing **_**too**_** scandalous this chapter.**

"Draco, dearest," Blaise Zabini sighed, his lightsome, toned from leaning against the tree underneath which is lover lay in a bed of softly crackling leaves and velvety moss, "Don't you think that was a bit…exorbitant, going off on Granger like that?"

"No," the blonde snorted balefully, "It's her own fault, _she_ was the one sticking her nose where it shouldn't be, masquerading as Pansy, and obviously I couldn't reveal to the entire house what was going on," he propped himself up on his elbows to meet Blaise's keen chocolate-coloured eyes, "You never know, do you?"

Blaise said nothing, assaying his paramour with a quietly intense, unfathomable expression softening his sharp, regal features. "No," he said at last, "You never know,"

He joined Draco on the ground, midwinter's fitful, capricious chill seeping through his cloak and undulating in glacial waves across his skin. His hands found the other Slytherin's with soundless dexterity, their fingers enmeshing, the curves of their palms pressing into one another as though they were two haves of something broken long ago. Above them, saturnine gray clouds swirled lazily, ripped across by the claws that were naked tree-limbs, shivering in the cold.

"You never really know anything, do you?" Draco mused faintly.

Blaise turned his head, searching his companion's face. "You're not telling me something," he said.

"Omniscient as always, Blaise," Draco grinned morosely at the moody blue-gray above, "I just wonder sometimes – is it all right, what we're doing? Is there a right? And – _gods_ – I don't know how long I can keep doing this,"

Blaise rolled over on top of his swain and kissed his neck with unprecedented tenderness. "What's right is what you feel is right, my love," he whispered tenuously, "You know you can stop any time, and I'll be right here,"

"But I can't stop," the Draco sighed in frustration, "You know that, Blaise,"

"I didn't mean give up your task," Blaise ceased his attentions to Draco's neck, drawing out a delicate whimper; "I just mean there are other ways to get it done, is all. We could ask Severus for help, even,"

Draco narrowed his stormy eyes.

"Or not," Blaise amended, "But I should have known that. You're a stubborn prat, you are,"

The smile that passed between them in the trice that passed before their lips met was one of warmth, one of deepest empathy and elfish flirtation. Friction warmed them, making the pink in their noses and blue of their lips recede, and returning circulation to neglected extremities, almost thawing the frozen ground beneath them, before-

"Draco. Blaise," a silky snicker came from behind them.

"Pansy!" Blaise looked up and chucked the neatest clod of dirt at her, "You always have to go and ruin the moment, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," she said amicably, "I just wanted to know exactly what you two idiots plan to do about that absolute disaster last night,"

Draco shrugged, "What's there to do? I threatened you for being a snotty little git, and you ran off, how is that out of the ordinary? I mean-"

"_Silencio_," Pansy flicked her wand at her assailant, rendering him momentarily silent, and continued, "You dolts made a scene out of it, and now the entire house is wondering what you're doing for the Dark Lord. And who knows what Hermione Granger and her idiot friends could be plotting. Don't give me that look, Draco - do you _really_ think it was an accident that I ended up in the hospital wing that night? And Potter probably got detention on purpose, so you wouldn't suspect him, but you two were too busy snogging to notice anything, now, weren't you?"

"Yeah, that about sums it up," Blaise said, "Observant, aren't you? Now, can you let him talk again, he's about it have a fit," (It was true – Draco was purple in the face from shouting silently and digging his nails into Blaise's arm.)

"Fine," Pansy muttered the counterjinx, allowing Draco to begin a great deal of infuriated spluttering, "But you'd better not let this get out of hand. You know what the consequences are," With that, she stalked off, leaving Draco and Blaise blissfully alone again.

"Come on, love," Blaise chuckled, "It's freezing out here, and I'd much rather be in a warm bed right now, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, fine," Draco shot Pansy's back a filthy look and followed Blaise back up the beaten dirt path to the castle.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b--r—e—a—k

Harry Potter was on the verge of a breakdown, vacillating on the edge of a complete and total collapse.

It was not the sudden ignition of this flame between he and Malfoy that was driving him to the brink – he just could not understand _why_.

Why did he like Malfoy? Why did he enjoy this violent lust, relish its suffocating grip? And why could he convoke the guts to fight Voldemort and a dozen death eaters, but just _looking_ at his personal archfiend made his heart writhe, and his stomach turn cartwheels.

All of this, this whole fortuitous mess, was beyond his comprehension.

"_You're an amusing little fucktoy, Potter," _he'd said, and with that flawless, brazen smirk, it was impossible to tell what he meant. Was he only looking for sex (Harry suspected this) or…something more? Did _Harry_ want something more? Would the risk be worth it? It was tying his brain in knots, ravelling around again and again, criss-crossing and fraying his sanity at its edges. It was not a feeling he was at all accustomed to, nor was it one he enjoyed in the least.

Without Quidditch to throw himself into, or Ron and Hermione to consult, he allowed his work with the D.A. to consume him, to rid all other thoughts from his crucified mind.

"Okay," he addressed his "class" one Thursday evening as snow gathered softly on the windowsills, "We're going to work on the Needles Curse. The wand motion is sort a sharp jab – like this – and the incantation is _Disegno Sangue_. We're not practicing on each other, it's not a very – er – nice curse, we'll use the dummies. Go ahead then, in two groups!"

"Harry!" Hermione hissed at him as soon as the class was too immersed in practice to hear what they were saying, "The Needles Curse? That's serious dark magic, you know. Don't you think it's a bit…exorbitant?"

"No," Harry snorted balefully, "Hermione, ten Death Eaters just broke out of Azkaban, we've _got_ to know how to defend ourselves! Besides, it's not as if it does any lasting damage,"  
"Just be careful," she said admonished, just the slightest bit carked.

As usual, Harry shook off the mounting trepidation in his gut and walked among his students as they practiced. Neville, surprisingly, had mastered the curse fastest, but he suspected it was because of Hermione's unwillingness to participate. His dummy, which had been bewitched to attack him, was now thoroughly placated, its synthetic skin turning red where thousands of invisible needles were piercing it. He clapped Neville firmly on the shoulder.

Cho Chang caught his eye from across the room. He could have sworn she winked. His cardiac humming bird fluttered, and the rational part of him lurched. Cho _and_ Malfoy? That was beyond ridiculous. He had reasons for liking Cho – she was smart, a good Quidditch player – very pretty – but she and Malfoy were practically polar opposites! He was…evil, for one, and…and smart too, but not near as smart as Cho, he told himself resiliently. Not to mention he was arrogant, absolutely insufferable and terminally gorgeous.

Harry sighed to himself.

After what had happened barely two weeks ago, there was no use denying it. He ached for his enemy, for those ambrosial lips and afflictive eyes, for rapturous sin. As the meeting ended and the D.A.'s members fled in all directions, he found himself lagging behind.

"Hello, Potter,"

He jumped, and whirled around.

"Malfoy!" he snarled reflexively before remembering his utter _need_, and softening.

"Astronomy tower, midnight, tomorrow," was all the Slytherin said before disappearing back to the dungeons.

Harry's heart leapt into his throat.

He doubted he'd ever know a longer day than the one to follow.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b--r—e—a—k

A/N: I know, that chapter didn't have much action, but the next one will more than make up for it, I promise. lascivious grin To elaborate on the mourning mentioned in my last author's note (which was written at 2 am): Lestat and Armand, my immortal lovers, are, for all intents and purposes, dead. Anne Rice has gone all Christian and renounced the vampire novels forever. It's going to take a very, very long time to get over this. sigh. Anyway, now, for school, we have to write a piece emulating a particular author. I picked Marcus Zusak, the author of The Book Thief (which I highly recommend) and now I am utterly stuck. This title is actually my own, yay! And the Needles Curse is of my own invention. The incantation means I Draw Blood is italian, I think. I got it off of free translation . com, which is not actually all that reliable. :) Love/Cake


	12. Sugar Cube

**Chapter 12: Sugar Cube**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.**

**Warnings: Delicious Harry/Draco smut.**

Draco sighed, allowing a lascivious grin to cross his lips.

He was looking forward to this, this next move in the parlous game they played.

Blaise disapproved this he knew, but loved him enough to know that when he set his mind on something, however crazy it was, it rarely went unfinished.

Still, he regretted it.

But not near enough to hold him back.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

Harry's heart was palpitating, trembling and seizing madly against his ribs.

He could not get to the astronomy tower fast enough, but his lungs were screaming and ragged, begging him to slow his leaps and hurdles up countless staircases.

Soon, he had told himself all day, soon. The memory of Draco's lips on his own, of the roving excitation of his hands was all that kept him from screaming as he watched the clock, unable to keep still. At long last, night had fallen, and the common room had emptied, setting him on a frantic race towards his craving.

He was gasping desperately for breath when he reached the tower. The cool night are hit him like a slap in the face, shocking breath into his lungs. The cloud-blurred stars above him twinkled and glimmered in their quiet celestial snicker.  
"Harry Potter," Malfoy murmured, facing away from Harry, "Fancy seeing you here,"

Wasting no time, Harry strode over to him and caught his solicitous lips in an acidic kiss, pulling him so close he doubted a dust mote could be forced between their two bodies. Tension and frustration washed over them in waves, ripping torrid gasps from starving lungs and igniting the very oxygen in the air. Malfoy's silky laughter wound its way around Harry's fierce breathing, perfect dissonance in the night air.

Harry relished it, every moment of verboten pleasure. This flame, this forbidden tangle of thorns, as Malfoy had called it – it was ecstasy. Tasting of absinthe and tart apples, it enfolded him, the essence of young green things and stars that refused to shine.

"Impatient, were you, Potter?" Malfoy snickered as their lips separated.

"You have no idea," Harry panted.

"Well," perfect lips curled upwards ever so slightly, "I think you're a bit overdressed, Golden Boy,"

As cheesy as the line was, it made Harry shudder. They shed their robes without a thought of the winter night air, and drew one another down to the rough stone floor. The delicious friction of skin against skin warmed them, and they passed their heat back and forth through violent kisses and soft bites, as Malfoy licked his way down Harry's torso.

Everything – Voldemort, Malfoy's and Zabini's plot, Ron, Hermione, Umbridge, everything – vanished as the Slytherin Prince started doing absolutely heavenly things with his mouth and hands and – Oh, Harry couldn't even tell what was what in the flaming rapture of it all, building within him, until it reached the apex of that final explosion of heat. Finally, they were aware of how cold it was, and were quick to huddle under their robes, sharing body heat and soft-lipped kisses.

"Is this…" Harry started quietly.

"What?"

"Is this – all we'll ever…?" He winced as the words tumbled from his lips. He hadn't meant to say that, he hadn't ever meant to let on that he wanted more than just this violent physicality, and now that he had, he realized he would have given everything to take it back. Their relationship of sorts was fragile already – he didn't want to risk it by alluding to something deeper. Something very possibly not reciprocated.

Malfoy only stared at him, storm-gray eyes luminescent in the darkness. "Do you want more?" he whispered.

Was it worth risking losing all of this – what little this lust amounted to?

Fucking hell, Harry decided, I've faced far worse than a life without sex from Malfoy. Oh, how wrong that sounded…

"Draco," he began, savouring how alien his foe's first name tasted, curling around his tongue and contorting his slips before slithering out, serpentine, "I want…you…in _every_ way,"

A slow grin broke out across the Slytherin's face. No words needed to be exchanged, for he simply leaned closer and kissed Harry, like satin encased in steel, like coal-black cashmere and smoothest absinthe. _Sweet, sweet sin_, Harry thought, _never leave. Never leave_.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

Harry positively flew back to the common room and into his bed, the heaving in his chest no longer painful, but rather a blissful reminder of those lips, those hands, those smouldering eyes. They way they spoke without a sound, sending chills in a saccharine ripple through his bones, his marrow, his flesh. He let his eyes close, both rows of eyelashes meeting gently as sleep claimed his sweetly aching body.

A corridor. He recognized this corridor; he'd been there a thousand times before, transported on the silent wings of slumber. This time, his lover was nowhere to be seen. There was only the door, the omnipresent black door, waiting for him. Calling him. He edged towards it, gingerly, as though afraid it might shatter suddenly and leave him screaming with wood embedded deep in his skin.

It didn't.

He reached out. The sensitive tips of his fingers brushed the handle, then grasped it, turning it. He could feel the lock giving way beneath his touch, although he'd never uttered alohomora or any other spell. He was powerful – he could feel it, rushing through his veins. He was powerful, more so than anyone. Yes, yes. He could taste it.

A hand on his shoulder had him whirling around.

There stood his lover. Paramour, flaming inamorato. His pale hands reached out, and took hold of Harry's robes, dragging him to the floor where they screamed their vicious rapture.

p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my fake girlfriend who is actually my real girlfriend and just refuses to realize it. Silly straight people…XD Anyway, this was a bit too cute for my tastes. I am seized by the urge to throttle myself. Title from the Porcelain and the Tramps song with the same name. Much love/Cake.


	13. Eris's Ecstasy

**Chapter 13: Eris's Ecstasy**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, love JKR and E.E. Cummings.**

**Warnings: A few naughty words.**

_suppose  
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head_

_young death sits in a cafe,  
smiling, a piece of money held between  
his thumb and first finger._

_(i say "will he buy you flowers" to you  
and "Death is young  
Life wears velour trousers  
Life totters, Life has a beard" i_

_say to you who are silent- "Do you see  
Life? he is there and here,  
or that, or this  
or an old man 3 thirds  
asleep, on his head  
flowers, always crying  
to nobody something about les  
roses les bluets  
yes,  
will He buy?  
Les belles bottes--oh hear,  
pas cheres")_

_and my love slowly answered I think so. But  
I think I see someone else_

there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards  
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;  
likes flowers.

Draco Malfoy had always appreciated E.E. Cummings. Not many wizards became poets, and of the few who did, an infinitesimal number were so accomplished that they became famous in the muggle world as well, and he appreciated this. He read the poem again, tasting each word, each phrase, and at last, the whole, a sweet-and-sour explosion of vernacular chemistry. He could feel phantoms of ink dripping down his chin, his neck – he fed on poetry, on the subtle simultaneous murder and birth of beauty. His eyes closed, and he tipped his aristocratic head back to rest against the emerald velvet of the sofa in the Slytherin common room. Verdant light from the chandelier above dappled his pale skin, making him seem just slightly more than human.

"Draco," Blaise's voice carried a trace of the smirk that crossed his face as he laid a hand on Draco's shoulder, "Being romantic?"

"Oh, shut up,"

"Well," Blaise continued, "I thought you might be interested in seeing this," He slipped a battered copy of The Quibbler over Draco's book. Harry Potter's face beamed awkwardly from the front, his glasses slightly askew and his scar more pronounced than he had ever seen it.

"What's this?" he muttered.

"Potter gave an interview," Blaise said simply.

Draco sat up straighter. "He gave an _interview_? About _what_?"

"Why don't you just read it?" Blaise suggested.

"Fine," Draco flipped open the magazine as he was joined by Blaise, who curled an arm around his waist and pulled him closer as he began to read-

_**Harry Potter Speaks Out At Last:**_

_**The Truth About He Who Must Not Be Named**_

_**And The Night I Saw Him Return**_

_It is Valentine's Day in Hogsmeade village. Snow drifts silently from the sombre gray sky and settles on the shoulders of happily chattering students while I sit with ministry-accused madman Harry Potter and his friend Hermione Granger in the Three Broomsticks pub, about to hear for the first time Harry's account of what really happened the night that You-Know-Who returned, writes Rita Skeeter. His brilliant green eyes are resolutely hardened against all the criticism and accusations that have come his way over the past year. He gulps deeply from his Butter Beer as we begin our interview._

_R.S.: Harry, you say you saw You Know Who return?_

_H.P.: Yeah._

_R.S.: And you maintain that this is true, despite the entire Ministry of Magic claiming you're a liar?_

_H.P.: Obviously._

_R.S.: Why?_

_H.P.: Because it's true! Look, I'm not – I'm not mad or anything, I really did see Voldemort come back!_

_R.S.: What happened that night?_

Draco skimmed over Harry's bit about the Dark Lord's return; he'd heard the story a thousand times already, and he knew personally every Death Eater that was named.

_R.S.: I see. Is there anything you'd like to say to our readers?_

_H.P.: Okay…look, I know that everyone's probably heard from the Ministry and the Prophet that I'm barking, but it's not true. Lord Voldemort is back…and…and we all have realize that and learn to defend ourselves properly, before – er – well, before it's too late._

Draco didn't bother reading the rest of the article. Knowing Rita Skeeter, it would be spent attempting to extract tidbits about Harry's love life or trying to coax tears about his dead parents from him.

"You realize this means we're fucked, right?" Blaise said, "People actually believe him now, and if you don't get moving with this plan of yours –as much as it sickens me- we'll be in a right heap of shit,"

"Yes, Mother," Draco sighed sardonically.

"Oh, don't be that way," Blaise tilted his chin up and kissed him lightly, before breaking into a precipitate gale of laughter.

"What now?" Draco whined.

"Potter!" Blaise choked out, "Potter when out with Cho Chang, from Ravenclaw,"

Draco arched an eyebrow.

"I heard it was an absolute disaster. She started crying and stormed out on him and everything. I would have _paid_ to see that, I swear!"

Something inside Draco seethed. It had barely been a week since his last…encounter, shall we say, with Harry, and he was already off snogging Cho Chang? He was a better actor than Draco had anticipated. What a dreadfully sticky situation. He chuckled mirthlessly. It was all too twisted, and oh so much fun. His sense of humour, he realized, was thoroughly serpentine. Without a word between them, he and Blaise slid to the floor and wove themselves together, a tapestry of misconceptions. Their lips were waterfalls, crashing, with hands like birds, intuitive.

"Ugh, this is so fucked up!" Draco bristled.

"I keep telling you, it will work itself out in the end. And Severus is helping you, you know," Blaise ran a hand up and down Draco's back, drawing goose bumps from the porcelain shell of his skill.

"I know, I know. But – really, Blaise, what is this coming to? Potter's snogging Chang and talking to _Rita Skeeter_, of all people, and Granger's breaking rules, and I'm – I'm-"

"You don't have to say it, love," Blaise chuckled softly, his breath hot against Draco's neck, "While there is no way in all of hell I would ever do it…your idea's not half bad,"

"You're just saying that because you love me,"

Blaise's retribution came in the form of a particularly vicious bite, followed by a gentle laugh. "I wouldn't lie to you, Draco. But yeah, I do love you,"

They kissed, slow and tremulous, rough and tender.

"_There is a lady, whose name is Afterwards. She is sitting beside young death, is slender;_

_likes flowers__," _Blaise whispered, "Now let's go kick some Boy-Who-Lived ass,"

-p-a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k-

A/N: Poem by E.E. Cummings, headline for the interview by JRK. Title is my own; Eris is the Greek goddess of strife. This chapter is dedicated to my lover-in-another-time, Lizzie-Marie (Who's actual name is Elizabeth Marie-Claire Constance Grace, which I love).


	14. Crushingly Close

Chapter 14: Crushingly Close

**Chapter 14: Crushingly Close**

**Disclaimer: After 13 chapters, these characters are still not mine. Surprise, surprise!**

**Warnings: Sexual…yeah, sex. Bad words. General "mature" themes.**

_So fucked up, _Harry thought, staring across the slate gray expanse of glassy water before him, _This is so bloody fucked up. _

He could hardly believe that the past few months were really his life. They seemed like a dream, something far away and unreal, happening to someone else entirely, and yet there he was. There he was, having just shagged Draco Malfoy.

There was no telling how wrong that sounded…but it had been so_ good_, to be so close to another human being, living blood and flesh, veins intertwined…He was covered in the evidence, bruises left by insatiate teeth covering his neck and burning, bleeding scratches raked over his back and chest, half-glowing in the growing darkness.

There was no way these were going to fade any time soon, and it kept getting harder to breathe-

So fucked up, _Draco thought, closing his stormy eyes and resting his head against the mercifully cool stone of the dungeon wall, _This is so bloody fucked up._ He had scratches running up and down his back, hardcore proof. He'd been in quite the compromising situation, he realized (on the floor, Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, cold tile beneath the trembling soles of his feel), but as usual, he wasn't the one doing the compromising. He never was. He was the parasite. He fed on the insecurities and fractious, destructive desires of others. Little half-moons of blood stung his sides, where lascivious nails had bitten into his flesh and into his consciousness. Now that he thought about it, he realized he hadn't meant to take it that far, but he liked to live in the moment. Or at the very least pretend he did._

Something in his chest was tightening, that deep and painful well where tears boil and flow. Harry looked up, forcing them back to their source. He would not cry. He would not cry over _Malfoy_. He would not pervert the natural order of things that much. Underneath all this, he surmised, their must still be some trace of the way things used to be. The way things were supposed to be. He longed to laugh like he used to. To spend his time with Ron and Hermione, complaining about Umbridge and Snape and pretending to study while playing exploding snap in the backs of their classrooms (Hermione didn't much take part in the latter). And yet…and yet he felt that there was nothing in the world worth giving up this malignant fire for. It tore apart all he knew, and left in it's place something…no, he didn't want to say better. It was something different. And sometimes, that felt like better.

_Draco's life, it seemed, had become a series of incorrect answers, but only because the test was so damn subjective. He was going to fail, and right then, he didn't particularly care. There were better things to do than waste the next two years of his life in this blasted castle. He clawed at the damp stone floor, its rough surface drawing pinpricks of blood from the sensitive flesh. It hurt, and he liked it. He'd never really been a masochist – it was quite a recent development, but he could see why some people shredded their wrists with razor blades. He wouldn't sink that low, however. No, he was better than that. He was better than breaking down – over Harry Potter, of all people. He would not pervert the natural order of things that much. _

Harry got to his feet, every fibre of him straining. It hurt to move still, and not just because if the physical pain – the intensity of this sudden, torrid affair was eating away at him. He was running, constantly running, just to stay in one place. Seemingly of its own accord, his fist collided with the tree he'd been leaning against. Pain shot through his knuckles and down his arm, already raw skin protesting. He'd never been a masochist, not really, and he didn't think he was very well suited to it. It seemed fiercely futile, fighting against yourself, even when there was nothing else one could do. He punched the tree again, and began to treck through the mud back to the castle.

_Draco arched his back against the wall, stretching his protesting muscles. He dragged himself to his feet. His aching skin and lips craved something soft, soft touch, liquid velvet. Blaise, or…Potter? He promptly turned around and banged his head into the wall with as much force as he dared. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. He was fucking Potter. That was all. And soon, it would be over. Sex was supposed to be simple. Everything else was infuriatingly labyrinthine, but pure physicality was supposed to be violently guileless. His stone world had inverted around him and he was damn sick of it. He picked up the half-empty bottle of absinthe that had rolled across the stone away from him and drank deeply. Yeah, he was going to get fucked up._

Harry ran his hands through his hair, pulling only slightly harder than he meant to. Every inch of him ached, stung, begged for something soft, soft touch. Draco. He craved this hushed coercion, the pain that it brought, the love. The heard beating beneath his fingertips, tornado eyes. He craved it and he hated it. March's warming wind played across his face as he walked, kissing his neck and cheeks in the dark, a phantasm. He felt empty. He felt ingenuous. His heart pounded against its bone cage, remonstrating against him, and he had the very distinct feeling that it didn't belong to him at all anymore.

-p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k-

"Harry!" Hermione's voice rang across the common room, breaking into the quiet shell that surrounded him, "Where have you been all day?"

"I've – well, you know, just-" Harry began. He was tired, starving, bleeding, he could hardly think, let alone formulate a coherent sentence-

"Never mind," she interrupted, "We've got a lot to do if we want the D.A. to pass their Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s. We talked to the Hufflepuffs earlier, and they said that Tuesday works for them, so you'll need to-"

"Hermione," Harry said tersely, "Can you…not…right now?"

"Harry," Ron started, "Is something…going on?"

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. An interrogation, even from those who meant well, was the opposite of what he needed just then. "No, it's nothing," he sighed.

"Harry, honestly," Hermione narrowed her eyes, "You're running off to who-knows-where at all hours. You're barely eating. Ron says you talk in your sleep. It's no use lying to us,"

Harry's fists clenched. He could hear his blood swirling and crashing in furious waves against his skull.

For the first time in his life, he stopped trying to control himself. His lips formed the words before he knew what he was doing, his tongue curling around the insidious vowels- "Fuck you."

He turned on his heel and left.

-p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k—p—a—g—e—b—r—e—a—k-

**A/N: **Sorry this one took forever, loves. There's been school (finals, ew), drama, my laziness, etc, etc. This title comes from Garbage/Nine Inch Nails, aka, two of the best bands ever. Like, ever. And the "tornado eyes" comes from a Kill Hannah song, I forget which one…By the way, find the Alice Through The Looking Glass shoutout and you get a cookie. Anna, you know where it is, don't say it. Much love/Cake


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